Changing Of The Seasons
by AutumnAtMidnite
Summary: What was meant to be a leisurely stroll through Regent's Park turns into an angst-fest for the poor doctor. Or, John vs. the diabolical leaves. A late era fic set just before Sherlock's retirement. Implied slash.


_So... This was originally written for the Sherlockfest on LJ back in October, and yes, I know, it's not autumn anymore. The foot of snow outside my window sort of makes me wish it was, though. Since my muse has mercilessly abandoned me and I've been meaning to transfer most of my LJ fics onto this site, I figured now is as good a time as any to start._

_Note: This is slash, but non-graphic, though perhaps a bit maudlin. And has been infused with a healthy dosage of book!Canon references.  
_

_Prompt Table #1: Leaves  


* * *

_

It's undeniable how substantially John Watson once admired the natural beauty of autumn. Possibly, his early childhood in Scotland is to blame, where his fondest memories are immersed in the season. The chillier nights where the Watson family would sit around an ignited hearth, their sitting room seeming for all the world like a painted scene out of some Victorian Christmas card. Then there was that heavenly aroma of his mother's freshly baked pumpkin pies, the ghostly yarns his father would spin at their bedsides by the eerie glow of a torch. Then afterwards, the patter of Harry's bare feet across the floorboards and her nosedive into his bed once the lights were out. Snuggling under the covers with him, she would promptly declare how she wasn't afraid of any stupid ghosts, it's only that John's bed was on the warmer side of the room, now move over, you git, or I'm telling mummy you wet your trousers when the school nurse gave you a needle.

Mostly, though, it was the leaves that accounted for his predilection for the season between summer and winter. Come late October, the garden of his childhood home was carpeted in a spectrum of reds and golds that neither he nor Harry dared tread through, as though touching it was to mar the aesthetics of something sacred. While he'd always retained a passing admiration for the changing seasons, his first autumn back from Afghanistan seemed to rekindle that old spark which had remained with him until this day, so very many years later.

Now, his cane has yet again become a constant companion, though no hope of his stilted gait being psychosomatic this time around. The occasional pangs in his shoulder were promoted to permanent rheumatism years ago, and his flaxen hair has dulled to a salty grey that irritates him so severely, he refuses more than a passing glance in the glass, and then isolated to when he shaves. He shouldn't feel so bloody old at fifty-three, much less look the part of Sherlock's grandfather despite him being only three years the man's senior.

To stroll idly in the park with Sherlock by his side was one of his greatest simple pleasures, that is, until this afternoon. Today, John despises the season with all it's unpredictable weather and the inevitable dampness that sears straight through his joints, effectively paralyzing him with stiffness. Is even beginning to feel the stirrings of loathing for the leaves that, given any other circumstance, he should be the first to admire for their picturesque charm. It can all just sod off, so far as the doctor is concerned. The giggling children in costume tagging each other about the place, obviously high on a candy overdose induced sugar rush. The stupid pumpkin latte Sherlock is absently sipping, a flavour that once made his mouth water now stirring a faint wave of nausea. And the leaves. Especially those leaves that have no qualms about tormenting a crippled, worthless retired army surgeon who just can't seem to get a handle on his equilibrium with the forsaken things so hell-bent on watching him hit the ground.

It's rained early this morning, and not even the afternoon sun is strong enough to dry the bed of slippery leaves strewn over every square inch of Regent's Park. Conditions that are not quite conducive to a cheerful - or civilized - mood for a pleasant walk, even if the company is agreeable. And, god, it is, very much so. The doctor has yet to tire of his detective, for all he can be so maddening. John's been accused of being a wee bit barmy himself for tolerating Sherlock Holmes this long, yet he's not so far off his rocker he fails to realize that his friend is as active, his brain keen as the day they met. That John will degrade into a boring toy no longer capable of holding the interest of one hyperactive, petulant genius is an inevitable consequence of his premature aging. He's been incapable of rooftop chases and mad dashes across the city for years, although remarkably, the need for them does not seem to occur anymore. The London criminal, it appears, has taken to more conventional means of escape, gathering by their more orthodox pursuits.

Despite this, the day will come where Sherlock realizes how incapacitated he's become, and when that day arrives… He understands, truly he does. Their line of work is as physically demanding as it is unconventional, and it's not his place to hold his friend back while he wheezes along behind. Never being one to take solace in self-delusion, John has come to terms with his unfortunate lot. It has been his plan to forestall the inevitable rejection to as drawn out a period he can manage. But he's terrified that particular hourglass will drop the last remaining grain of sand sooner rather than later with every measured step he takes.

The strain on his leg is unbearable, but John grits his teeth and endures, only half conscious of Sherlock's prattling on about the Queen - assuming he's even hearing correctly. Since when does his flat-mate give half a damn about royalty?

John is momentarily caught up in this random musing when the tip of his cane makes contact with a shallow puddle cleverly disguised by a patch of rogue leaves. As the cane slips out from under him, the impending scene, in all it's humiliating glory, plays out in his mind. With any luck, John will land on his overly padded arse and only incur an apathetic sniff from his mildly sociopathic friend, before the man stalks off, shaking his head in disgust. The topic might remain unspoken between them, yet with every sideways glance, he'd know. Get out, Sherlock would say without uttering a single word. Get out, I require a replacement partner. And because he couldn't bear having that cold stare aimed at him, moving on is preferable.

Shutting his eyes tight, he braces himself for the inevitable backwards flop. Sherlock expels an impatient huff of breath, and shit shit shit, it's happening already.

Except, his fall is prevented when a sinewy arm links through his, supporting enough of his weight that the tension is efficiently released at points he wasn't even aware were sore in the first place. He's in the process of creaking open his eyes to convince himself this actually has happened when Sherlock snaps at him in his familiar acerbic way.

"John, you're not listening," he announces with all the annoyance of a child stomping their foot in the middle of a tantrum.

"W-what?" John still hasn't quite got a hold on his bearings.

"Precisely. You haven't been paying attention to one word I've said, have you?"

"Um, no. Not really." His lack of intelligible speech can't be helped when he's so astonished that Sherlock's arm is in his own, radiating a comforting warmth throughout his body. It's been over twenty years, and John is unable to think back to another instance where his friend deliberately threw his typical cold restraint to the wind and got so close.

He's never been sure how to label their relationship. Friends, obviously, but there are occurrences, few and far between as they may be and always between cases, when Sherlock wants more from John. Demands more, to be accurate. And John gives it, freely and gladly, because he is helplessly magnetized to this enigmatical man. Gives it even when he is not so convinced this is anything meaningful to Sherlock, that he is merely the most convenient route to instant gratification. It's not that he doesn't enjoy their brief sessions spent as bedfellows, but there's always something hollow inside when he wakes up alone, twisted in the tangled sheets of his bed. That this emptiness should be so filled at this era in his life, when he's practically incapable of sustaining their active lifestyle for much longer... it's a cruel joke. John has never wanted anything so much as he does a scrap of tenderness from the man whom he's devoted his life to, and now that he's had a taste of what it feels like, it's a salt in a fresh wound, that's what it is.

"Sorry, I was a bit distracted." Is all he manages to choke out at Sherlock's admonishing glance.

"Yes, well, if you were less preoccupied with an irrational fear of tripping over your own feet..."

"That's not fair. You know I'm unsteady on my feet, and these," he gestures to the leaves with his cane, "aren't exactly making the situation better."

"Nonsense, John. You're the steadiest man I know. Now, if you'll condescend to listen to the highlights -"

The doctor comes to a full stop, mid stride. "Come again?" He must have heard incorrectly. That was not just a compliment he'd had thrown at him. Couldn't be. Not possible.

"Ugh! The highlights, John, the highlights! I'm not going through that entire discourse again, but I'm willing to recount the most relevant points for your benefit. We can't have you accidentally offending them; wouldn't be advantageous to your general well being, doctor."

"Them?"

"Yes, them. I can't see it going well for you if you mistakenly offend the queen." With that, Sherlock leads him to an unoccupied bench overlooking the pond. Weary bones crack as he lowers himself onto the seat, and though it's no longer practical for their arms to still be connected, he's more than a little pleased to note Sherlock's reluctance to let go.

"Sherlock. I have no bloody clue what you're talking about. Why would I so much as come into contact with the Queen, much less accidentally offend her? You're not planning on finally accepting that Knighthood, are you?"

"Not the monarch, the bees! Really John, must you be so daft?"

"Bees?"

"Yes, I want bees."

"You want bees?" he parrots. "Okay," he drawls out after a pause. "I'm almost sorry for asking, but why do you want bees, and where do you think you're keeping them? I told you a thousand times, no more live experiments in the loo. My feet were swollen for a month after I stepped on that colony of crabs in the bathtub."

"Really, John, that was two years ago. And you did ruin my researches into the social habits of crustaceans."

In spite of himself, the doctor snorts out a laugh.

"But, I'll have you know, I intend to keep my bees in a proper hive. Can you believe the cottage I've picked out happens to have an abandoned apiary on the grounds? Seems another retired bloke had one commissioned when he bought the place back in 1904. The house agent informs me he left behind a genuine Stradivarius, which comes with the house, as well. Been empty for decades, and they were absolutely desperate to sell it off."

Ah. Then it doesn't matter John is essentially being invalided out of his work with Sherlock, just as he was sent on his way after nearly being killed for his country. Nice knowing you, but you're of no use to us now, so don't let the door hit you on the way out. Despite himself, he breaks away from his friend's hold and buries his face in his hands. He refuses to allow one tear to fall in Sherlock's presence, and makes to rise when a strong grip pulls him back down.

"Don't look so gloomy. Sussex isn't all that bad."

"What are you saying?" It takes all the strength John has left to face him, and sonuvabitch, he hadn't meant to tear up so.

"The cases are so dull nowadays, and besides, I felt it was high time I devoted my fullest attention to more valuable causes." Cool fingers twine through John's own, as their owner, stiffly facing forward, continues. "I'm not quite easy to get on with, though if you're amenable to the idea of tolerating me on a permanent basis, the cottage is a double-bedded one and the fresh sea air is so much more preferable to London's variety. Apart from that, I'm anxious to get my hands on that Stradivarius, and I've no use for taking up the thing unless it's to play for you."

There is only one reply John Watson can give to that, and, as fortune would have it, that's the very same one he's waited a lifetime to speak.

John squeezes his hand and whispers, "I love you, too."

.

.

.


End file.
